Nine

TWO WEEKS BEFORE I was to be baptized, the Sabbath began at sunset, May 13. I had missed a few of our Friday evenings over the months, and Mama asked me especially to be there on the 13th. I noticed immediately that the high holy day china was out of storage along with the finest linens and silverware. Perhaps this was Mama’s way of celebrating for me.

The table was set most beautifully. In the middle was an exquisite bouquet of lilacs in full bloom filling the room with their aroma. On either side were the traditional Shabbat candles. Banked around the candlesticks were little colored wrappings of candy and mints. Lilac-colored linen napkins, neatly pressed, gave added color to the table. There were also several extra places set, and I had no idea who the company might be, but apparently my captors did.

One of the “guests” was David, who usually didn’t come for Shabbat, so I thought maybe the other one was for Sally who was going to surprise me with a visit from Philly, but Sally hadn’t been talking to me since I dropped my Catholic bomb on the table after New Year’s. But it was not Sally. Twenty minutes before sunset, the doorman announced that our visitor was on his way up the elevator. Mama, engrossed in matzo ball soup, hollered for me to get the door.

I opened the door, and there smiling from ear to ear was Rabbi Liebermann. I tried not to act surprised but fumbled around with my welcome, asking him whether Mrs. Liebermann was coming…glancing down the hall toward the elevators.

“Oh no, Rebecca, she’s having Shabbat with her sister’s family in Brooklyn; they’ve just returned from Miami Beach for the summer. Your father was kind enough to invite me to join all of you.”

My father? I thought to myself. My father never invited the rabbi from across the street to join us for dinner. I began to see the scheme they had laid. No one of my family acknowledged that I was going to be baptized in two weeks, but this was, no doubt, their last-ditch effort to persuade me to come to my senses. I brought Rabbi Liebermann into the front parlor and told him I would let my father know he had arrived. I passed my father in the hallway. “Your rabbinical guest is here.” Papa only smiled.

To add to the drama, Mama asked me if I would light the Shabbat candles. I think I had done that only once in my whole life, when Mama was too sick and Sally was away and it fell to me as the eldest daughter present. I smiled and told Mama that it would be an honor. And the family, with our rabbi present, gathered around the table, and I prayed the Baruch Atah with a soft but clear voice. My eyes, of course, were closed, and I drew the light to my face and opened my eyes on the Sabbath. “Good Shabbat,” I said to the rabbi. “Good Shabbat, Papa…Good Shabbat, Mama,” I said and kissed them both on the cheek. “I am touched that you have asked me to welcome Shabbat. I hope you will always know that I am your daughter and that I love you and thank the Lord every day for the blessings He has given me in being your daughter,” and turning to David and Ruthie, I added, “and your sister.”

I could see that Mama was already becoming a bit weepy. She wiped her hands on her apron, and came over to embrace me. “I wish you weren’t doing what you’re doing…” she managed to get out.

“I know, Mama, I know.” And I held her close to me. Papa took it as his cue, and gestured for the rabbi, and David to sit down at the dining room table; Ruthie made her exit “stage left,” into the kitchen, to help carry out the festive dinner. Papa blessed the challah and David poured the wine, and everyone relaxed…for a while. I was quiet and always polite. I did not have it in me to argue and hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. I knew that when I was confirmed and received the fullness of the gifts of the Holy Spirit, I would be a “soldier for Christ” and would have the grace to bear witness to the Faith. Still, I had imagined that would be on the college campus or in the Belgian Congo, not around my dinner table on West 79th Street.

I dissolved for a moment into the soft warmth of the challah, and thought of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, who baked the challah for Shabbat and lit the Shabbat candles every Friday evening, like I had tonight. And I silently pictured her in my mind, like the icon of Our Mother of Perpetual Help, and again prayed silently for her help. And I thought of Edith Stein and wondered if she ever was in a similar predicament; of course, she would have had the philosophical vocabulary to match anyone at her table. I didn’t.

Not a word was said about my forthcoming apostasy till dessert and coffee. Rabbi Liebermann began innocently enough, asking me how my year at Barnard went and what courses I would be taking next year. “I understand you have been friends with a Jewish man who has become a Christian?”

I simply acknowledged that: “That’s right, Ezra Goldman from Buffalo. Mama and Papa know him; he and his aunt came for Thanksgiving.”

“Ah, yes, I think your father told me that. A fine young man, I understand…are you thinking of marrying this Ezra?”

“Oh no, Rabbi, he’s not my boyfriend, just a friend…” and before the rabbi could proceed with his premeditated interrogation, I said, “It was most providential, I suppose, as I had been thinking of becoming a Christian since last summer, and didn’t know that Ezra had become a Catholic about six months before. He saw me coming out of Corpus Christi Church one morning and followed me to a little tea shop near school and introduced himself to me there. He didn’t have any influence on my becoming a Catholic, however. If anything, he shared with me how difficult it is for the family.”

Rabbi Liebermann didn’t say anything for a moment, but I knew David would be adding his two cents before long. “Tell her, Rabbi, how foolish she is; tell her how the Christians have not only been living in a terrible delusion, but have been the cause of our being persecuted for nearly two thousand years. She’s going to subject herself to the Pope of Rome, for heaven’s sake, and lose her ability to think on her own and make her own decisions; she’s betraying her family and her people, and she’s…”

“Enough, David.” My father interjected, stopping David’s tirade. “We’ve been down this path before. What do you think, Rabbi?”

Everyone suddenly stopped eating the rhubarb pie Mama had slaved over all morning to make from scratch. All eyes were on the man they had hoped would save me from making a terrible mistake.

Rabbi Liebermann slowly took a sip of his wine, which he seemed to prefer to coffee, and stroked his beard like men do when they are thinking. He looked off into the distance like there were people there we couldn’t see.

“My grandfather, may he rest in peace, like your grandfathers, came to this country after the First World War, maybe even before. Perhaps they already surmised the rumblings of a further war in Europe that would not favor them, but they came here to make a new life for themselves. What a blessing. (We all nodded in agreement.) In this country, and in our beloved New York, we have found a home where we can keep Torah and observe Shabbat and our holy days, where we can raise our families in freedom and all the blessings the Almighty has continued to give us. This is the Jewish stock your Rebecca has come from, and the family which has been a blessing—there is much to be grateful for.

“I don’t think your Rebecca intends to betray her Jewish heritage or to dishonor her mother and father. She is a daughter of the Commandment to have no other God before the God of Israel, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. And she is young. Would that I were twenty again! (We all laughed on cue.) Her womanhood is coming of age; her mind is awakened and her heart is becoming the heart of a woman. (Ruthie laughed, and stopped abruptly.) I know she has mourned deeply the loss of her brother, Joshua, may he rest in peace. (He was speaking to Mama and Papa like I was absent or something!) And perhaps in her grief she has found some consolation in the prayers and solemnities of Catholicism…it happens. Nothing I will say to the contrary will move her heart at this moment,” and he turned his gaze to me, “but, Rebecca, darling, wait on the Lord. You are too young to make such a drastic change…wait for a few years; think of it like one of your classes: you’re learning, you’re seeing how other people live; but Judaism is your people; we are your flesh and blood. Wait for a few years, finish school, get a good job, and learn what it is to make a living on your own. The Lord has touched your soul, but that doesn’t mean you have to change. Let your Jewishness become deeper; it is God’s blessing to you. You are a lovely girl, a blessing to your family. We don’t want you to act precipitously, you know. We think things through, we search the Talmud, we obey the mitzvahs. Wait, that is all we are asking.”

There was a dead silence. Ruthie broke the silence as only she could. “May I have some more wine, please?” Papa poured her a full glass without saying a word, and himself and the rabbi another glass. Nobody was drinking their coffee.

After what seemed an interminable silence, I spoke: “Thank you, Rabbi, for your kind words, and for caring enough to come tonight. I know you must leave soon for Friday night services, and I think David and my father will join you.” (I didn’t dare glance over at David.) “I will sincerely think about what you have said, as I have been all these silent months. I have been, more than any of you realize.” (I was proud of myself that my voice did not crack or even quiver, but stayed calm and soft, but firm.) “I don’t think I can put into words what has been going on in my soul this past year; I don’t believe I am reacting to my grief for Josh or for my friend, Grace Price, or to anything I happened upon in my studies. It is something else…something, or perhaps I should say, Someone, who has been given to me. And I know in my heart of hearts that it is real…and that it is good…and that it is of God. Such a blessing, that it should come to one so young and undeserving of such… such…love. Thank you, Rabbi, for your kindness to me and my family. Mama, Papa, if you will excuse me, I’d like to go to my room.” I folded my lilac linen napkin, took one last swallow of wine and stood up.

And it was Papa again…he smiled the smile he once blessed me with that snowy afternoon at Wolfie’s near Rockefeller Plaza. “Go, my darling Raf.” I kissed him on the top of the head and went to my room. I sat in my rocker and cried quietly for a bit, but I think I was all cried out by that time. I also knew that I was comforted in that moment of letting go…Comforter of the Afflicted…pray for me.

And now it is time to speak of my day. It dawned warm and sunny. I was up before anyone else. I had bathed the night before and only needed to take out the huge rollers in my hair and fuss for a bit over it all, knowing it would be washed in baptismal water in a few hours. I suspected that Mama and Papa would purposely sleep in till I left, and I had let them know that I would be going to my friend Greta’s, who was received into the Church last week. She had bought me a lovely beige-white dress which we picked out together at Bloomingdale’s, and a beige floppy hat with a shocking red headband for Pentecost. Gwendolyn gave me one of her beige and red handbags which went perfectly with the dress. No penguin. I was to change at Greta’s and meet everyone else at the church before ten o’clock.

Being baptized as an adult did not mean that I couldn’t have a godmother and godfather; they were referred to as my sponsors, but I called them my godfather and godmother. And so my godmother was Lady Gwendolyn, who had become very dear to me, and rather more big-sisterly than godmotherly. I suppose she was old enough to be my mother, but she was much more like a sister. My own older sister was not even speaking to me.

There was of course only one choice for my godfather, and Ezra Anthony Goldman fit the bill. Fr. Meriwether would be doing the baptism in the lovely baptistery off to the right when you come into the church. I never really noticed it till that Saturday before my first Monday night class when Father gave me a little tour of the church. It is set in its own room to the far right when you enter the back of the church. It is actually an octagon with six seats each in their own niche, and each with a fabric-covered cushion. The baptismal font, also an octagon, is in the middle, held up by four angels. Each angel is holding a symbol of the new life of grace flowing from the font of life. The floor itself is designed like waves of water or grace flowing from the font.

Fr. Meriwether explained that the octagon stands for a new creation: the day Christ rose from the dead was the eighth day, the first day of the week, the day the Lord has made. On one side wall was a statue of John the Baptist and on the opposite wall a stained-glass window of the Baptism of the Lord. The rear wall displayed a gorgeous painting of the Pieta by Bartolomeo Caporali.

One could spend hours just in the baptistery meditating on the significance of everything. The stone font itself has an inscription surrounding the eight sides:

Teach ye all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you, and behold, I am with you all days even to the consummation of the world.

I didn’t remember that from the day itself, but have often gone into the baptistery to pray and meditate on everything. The Lord’s words, I am with you all days, have come back to me often. It’s a consolation when we most need to remember, like when we’re feeling especially lonely or nothing around us is making any sense. But I was not alone on that wonderful day.

Going back an hour, before arriving at the church, I went to Greta’s apartment. She was so sweet and kind to me. She was really the motherly type, although she wasn’t much older than Gwendolyn. She had a pot of Earl Grey steeping on the counter when I arrived and a piece of very thin toast, which was hardly enough to sustain me, but I had to eat something before the three hour Eucharistic fast (a couple bagels with peanut butter and honey would have been very nice, but I didn’t want to complain). As it was, the morsel of toast was plenty, and we dashed out of the building by 9:40 and grabbed a cab. Gwendolyn and Ezra were already there, along with Stephen and Michael, Ezra’s roommates, and a young woman wearing a long mantilla, who was Michael’s girlfriend, Constance. Greta greeted one of her friends, Russell, who was also a convert from the Lutheran Church. Three of my friends from college came too, perhaps more out of curiosity than the sincerity of wishing me blessings in my new life. A very nice surprise was to see Mr. and Mrs. Price there. Of course, no one from my family was there. I thought maybe, just maybe, Papa would come to see this thing that was happening, but he didn’t. It was a bit crowded in the octagon, but everyone was very quiet and reverent; the room draws it out of you!

Fr. Meriwether came in wearing a gold and white cope over his Dominican habit and a surplice and stole. He was very happy that I had asked him to baptize me. St. Vincent’s is not in my parish boundary, but I had definitely wanted to be baptized there.

Having renounced Satan and all his pomp and works, having professed the Trinitarian Faith, having assented to everything he asked in the rite, I approached the baptismal font bareheaded and leaned over it. I heard the words in Latin, and felt the warm water being poured on my head: “I baptize you Rebecca Abigail Grace, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

The joy of that moment erased any fears, doubts, or wanderings in my poor soul. How can one ever express the inexpressible in human words? On Pentecost Sunday, May 29, 1966, I was baptized, and the Holy Spirit flooded my soul to dwell in me and I in Him.

How can one express the change that happens in one’s very being by sanctifying grace? My inner space was remade anew and filled with God. The profound spiritual, dare I say, mystical, reality of that moment cannot be fully expressed in words, only surrendered to and contemplated in silence…a silence which embraces the whole of the Mystery, like Pentecost itself, a pouring forth of the Holy Spirit and a Holy Communion in the Body of Christ, the Risen God-Man.

The eleven o’clock High Mass would begin about a half-hour after my baptism. Fr. Meriwether brought me and all my guests into the priory just a couple doorways from the baptistery. Everyone was hugging me and congratulating me. I could hardly say anything I was so moved.

That was very kind of Fr. Meriwether, but I’m glad it didn’t last more than ten minutes, as we all went back into the church. Ezra, Gwendolyn, Greta and I went into the pew near the front, in direct line with the statue of Our Lady, whom the Dominicans called the Porta Caeli, the Gate of Heaven, because she was located between the nave of the church and the friars’ choir, leading to the sanctuary. It is a lovely statue in a stone niche with a stone shelf beneath her feet that is ideal for flowers. And that day there was a beautiful bouquet of white and red roses there; I think there were three dozen in all. The small notice in the parish bulletin read, The flowers at the statue of Our Lady are given in thanksgiving for the Baptism and First Holy Communion of Rebecca Grace Feinstein, by the Price Family: Arthur, Caroline, William, and Grace.

There was a beautiful organ prelude, the name of which escapes me now, but I remember just closing my eyes and letting it all soak in. Who would have ever thought that Saturday morning when I came into this church to light a candle for Grace Price, that less than a year later I would be sitting here a Catholic, waiting to receive my First Holy Communion? Ezra nudged me in the side and handed me his handkerchief; the tears were coming down silently. God counts the tears of women, but this time it was tears of joy. It was the parish’s Pentecost Sunday Solemn High Mass with a professional choir and an incredible organist. The choir processed in red choir robes and white surplices, and the priest’s vestments were red, and the Holy Spirit was liturgically poured out upon us. This is true at every single Mass, but for me this Mass, on this day, was the most splendid Mass I had ever attended because I felt like it was all for me.

I never experienced what I’ve heard so many women and the other sisters talk about as their First Holy Communion Day with a white dress and veil and white patent leather shoes and a white rosary and a First Communion Prayer Book with a mother-of-pearl cover. There was not a whole class and lots of attention. But I had my new friends, and all my new family in the Communion of Saints. Fr. Ryan, the pastor, preached from the magnificent high pulpit which is a sermon in itself, but I don’t remember a word he said. I could hardly wait to kneel at the marble communion rail and receive the Body of Christ for the first time.

Now I knew why so many Catholics return silently and quickly to their pews and, kneeling, bury their faces in their hands. It is the most intimate moment with God this side of Heaven. In that First Holy Intimacy, I thanked the Lord with all my heart and gave my whole life to Him to do with me whatever He wills, just never ever let me be separated from Him.

I would remember this prayer, and renew it many times and meditate on it and ponder it and how the Lord was taking me at my word. We say things in the most poignant moments of love. I knew that, and I was only twenty, and living in the middle of a decade that was going wild and seemed to know no bounds. I had never expected to be there and, if I may sound religiously romantic, so much in love.

After Mass we went to Greta’s apartment on East 79th between Second and Third Avenue. She and Gwendolyn had planned a little party for their new Catholic, and I was utterly surprised by their joy, not to mention all the wonderful cards and gifts they gave me. The dress and hat were Greta’s gift, plus the party, which included pink champagne—pink for Pentecost! There were finger sandwiches from Tea on Thames, followed by platters of cold cuts and cheese and five kinds of rolls and bread.

Greta also gave me a first edition copy of the writings of Edith Stein, a treasure which I still have, along with my original copy of The Cost of Discipleship. Gwendolyn gave me a lovely statue of Our Lady of Grace, the image on the miraculous medal, with the Blessed Mother crushing the serpent’s head, her arms opened in a gesture of prayer and welcome… the Mother of all grace. It meant so much coming from her.

There was another statue-shaped box among my gifts. The second one was from Ezra. It was a wooden carved statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, not in the priestly vestments as my favorite statue in St. Vincent’s has, but the gesture of the hand leading the beholder to His heart was the same. The Prices, who were not at this little party, nonetheless left a gift in addition to the roses in the church. It was easy to guess as I was unwrapping it—a beautiful framed icon of Our Mother of Perpetual Help. And from Ezra’s roommates, Michael and Stephen, a leather-bound Roman Missal with Latin and English on alternate pages.

After my party, the plan was to schlep everything home to my apartment and to meet Ezra for supper uptown near school, at a new Thai restaurant we were dying to try, and then to have dessert at Tea on Thames.

I didn’t know what to expect when I got home, especially with all my Catholic stuff in tow, but to my surprise nobody was there. I took everything to my bedroom and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There, propped up on the salt shaker on the kitchen table was an envelope addressed to me. It was Mama’s handwriting. I sat down and read:

My dearest Rebecca,

Please forgive us all for our hasty departure. Sally has invited us to Philadelphia for the week; she has rented a small house at the Jersey shore, at Seaside Heights. We’re all going, except for David, of course, who can’t get away. Your father and I thought you might prefer to have the apartment to yourself for a week to begin your summer vacation. We thought, your father and I, that you might look to find an apartment for yourself where you will be more comfortable. We will miss you at the shore, such a summer this seems to be. Ruthie sends her love, as does your father, such a blessing. We love you. Mama.

I sat at the table, stunned and at the same time relieved. The whistling of the kettle brought me back to earth, and I fixed a large mug of tea and went to my room. I had a couple hours before meeting Ezra, so I sat in my rocker to drink my tea, and picked up The Cost of Discipleship to read as a disciple for the first time. I didn’t unpack my gifts.